—The Cynic’s Book of Wisdom “Nothing fixes a thing so intensely in the memory as the wish to forget it.” —MICHEL DE MONTAIGNE (1533-1592) Date: 2526.7.16 (Standard) 1,750,000 km from Bakunin-BD+50°1725 Parvi stands on a plateau on one of the windswept canyons on Rubai, where the constant equatorial winds have ablated away all but the hardest bedrock. The sky’s a constant brown from windblown dust, and the sound of the air slipping past rock sounds like the planet itself is crying. She stands in her old uniform from the Expeditionary Command, atop one of the five- hundred-meter granite fingers that reach up from the floor of the canyon. Across the top of the granite pillar, a lone figure sits facing her. The seated woman wears khaki overalls with a Caliphate shoulder patch. Her face is light- skinned, framed by black hair, and she stares at Parvi with almond eyes. Her throat is swollen and black with bruises. When she opens her mouth, the inside glistens red with blood. Parvi knows she is dreaming, but still backs up a step.
